Who Needs Shelter
by deemn
Summary: Two years post-S2 Finale. Storybrooke has settled back into the routines of small town life and no one is really willing to shatter the illusion that everything is just fine.
1. Chapter 1

For mariathepenguin: Ma-RIIIIIII-AAAAAA. Dearest Penguin: I originally promised you Bering & Wells. Then I said Henry-centric. This is what happened instead. I am telling myself that it is still Henry-centric because it is, but, also, gay on until morning. Happy birthday!

Summary: Two years post-S2 Finale. Storybrooke has settled back into the routines of small town life and no one is really willing to shatter the illusion that everything is just fine.

Changes to canon: Neal died as soon as he hit dirt in FTL. Stopping the failsafe involved infusing it with all the active magic in Storybrooke, but also, you know, our ladies combining magic and true love and sparkles. Also, I genuinely _don't_ know why Regina walks almost everywhere in this fic, because she does have her car, but… that's how it is?

Possible trigger warning: bullying aftereffects.

* * *

The worst part is that she's almost sure this isn't the first time. They have a routine, worn in after a year: when Henry gets home from school, he goes straight up to his room and showers. He's taken to biking home because getting picked up by a mother is the height of uncool. And of course Emma sided with him, not with Regina.

Normally, when Henry tramps through the foyer with his suddenly-large feet, Regina stays in her study. Henry is an angel in the mornings—where he got that from, no one knows—but a hellion between three and five in the afternoon, when his slowly-stretching body demands sleep but his schedule demands activity. After three weeks of near constant arguing last September, she realized the best thing to do is leave him alone until about 5:15, when he inevitably comes down and asks "What's for dinner?" after hugging her tightly.

Two years later and she'll still gladly trade an hour of silence for a good hug.

Today, though, she managed to spill her afternoon chamomile all over her blouse, so when the front door slams shut, she's just starting down the stairs in a fresh shirt and is face to face with Henry as he sprints up them. "Hey, Mom," he says quickly, voice hoarse, and tries to duck to her left.

She reaches out and blocks his path with her arm, waits while his shoulders slump. "Henry," she starts, gently, and turns his face to her, "what happened?"

He tries to smile and his swollen lip spreads to reveal three cuts on the left side of his mouth. "Nothing, fell from my bike, no big deal."

She looks at his shirt, his hands, his jeans. There are no other signs of a fall. "Henry."

He looks her straight in eye—comes up to her nose, now, almost a foot taller than he'd been when everything fell apart and somehow it makes a difference, makes them _different_—and says, "I fell. From my bike." He holds her gaze and his eyes—his lovely hazel eyes—are begging her to believe him.

She sighs, removes her hand from his cheek but grasps his wrist instead. "Your lip is split. If you fell, you probably have gravel and dirt in it. Come."

He stays gratefully quiet while she dabs at the cuts with an alcohol wipe, pinching his eyes shut at the sting. While she digs up the vitamin E oil, he tells her the relevant parts of his day, the things that he'd normally say over dinner: essay on _The Odyssey_ due next week, history teacher gave another pop quiz, he really hates biology because there aren't any consistent rules and they won't get to dissect anything until AP senior year so there's no point.

"What subject actually has consistent rules?" she challenges, and holds off his response by dabbing the oil on his lip. "Certainly not English."

"Math."

"Wait until you're dealing with imaginary numbers." He smiles, eyes bright, and the cuts turn red again. "Hold a cotton round to it until it stops bleeding, then reapply the oil, all right?"

It's a luxury to kiss his forehead, smooth his hair back and not have to worry about being pushed away. "Thanks, Mom," he murmurs, and hugs her again.

She leaves him to his shower and heads back into her study, stares at the phone for two full minutes before picking it up and making the call.

* * *

Henry is slightly surprised to see Emma standing at the island when he comes down, but shrugs and bumps her shoulder with his before getting a glass, stumbles past her to the fridge. "Hey, Ma. Staying for dinner? What's for dinner?"

"She is," Regina answers, "and pork chops."

"Baked or fried?"

She rolls her eyes. "Fried." Emma and Henry both pump a fist in victory, mirror images of each other. "But they're lean chops, anyway. And you're having salad, not rice."

"Aww, Mom, come on."

"Why am I being punished? I'm the guest!"

"Bad influence," Regina retorts, and Henry snickers.

Emma scowls at him, returns to slicing the few vegetables she consistently agrees to eat: carrots, cucumbers, red bell peppers. "Keep laughing, kid, I'm not the one with high cholesterol."

"It was _slightly _high. The doctor said _slightly_ high," he repeats, putting the orange juice back in the fridge.

"That paper said just plain high. And now we're all suffering because you went on a Twinkie binge."

"_They don't make them anymore_, it was a honor binge of mourning."

"You are entirely too upset about the demise of junk food capable of surviving nuclear war," Regina observes mildly, putting the now-washed bowl of arugula down on the counter. His glass of juice is just a few inches past her hand, so she reaches out and grabs it, steals a sip.

"You never even had one," and he swipes his juice back, "you can't judge."

"Of course I didn't, you ate every one in the state of Maine. And a single binge wouldn't give you high cholesterol, your eating habits in general were unhealthy. Get the green Pyrex from the fridge?"

Henry turns to the fridge and Emma meets her gaze, nods slightly. Regina feels her stomach twist up, tilts her head in Henry's direction and then smiles for him when he hands her the glass container with the marinated chops and onions, turns away and lets the two of them chatter about the touch football game on Saturday morning, whether Leroy's ankle is healed enough for him to play again.

She's just gotten the oil hot and the first two chops in when Emma, quite casually, drawls, "So, the hell happened to your face?"

Leave it to Emma to approach with tact.

Regina puts the mesh screen over the top of the frying pan and turns to look at Henry, who's gone very still. "That's why you're here?" he asks, and then looks at Regina. "You called her?"

A look from Emma reminds her that they're _okay_, that she can be strong about this. So she merely crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him. "Your mother asked you a question, Henry."

"I fell," he repeats, voice lower and harder. "From my bike."

She presses her lips together because she wants to say _bullshit_ and she shouldn't. She shouldn't, because Emma does. "Bullshit, kid. Try again."

"I fell—"

"No marks on your bike, no new scuffs on your shoes, your mom says your clothes looked fine. Your hands look fine, too. What, you didn't try to brace your fall, just took it to the face like a man?"

Regina can't help the sharp inhale and glare she shoots at Emma, because they're working on not using crap concepts like _like a man_. Not with their boy.

"Sorry," Emma grumbles, "like a fucking idiot. Better?"

Regina pinches the bridge of her nose, but Henry laughs, and that's worth it. So she turns back to the stove, lifts the mesh and flips the chops. "Henry, we just… want you to tell us the truth. We won't do anything—"

"Like hell we won't," Emma interrupts.

"—embarrassing, if that's your concern," and Regina glares at Emma briefly. "But if you're in trouble, we need to know."

It's easier for him to admit that he needs help when no one's looking at him, which is why Regina asked Emma to wait until she was cooking, why Emma's still facing the cutting board and not their child. Because they need him to tell them he needs them, and Henry hasn't been able to ask them for anything since they day they dragged him, unconscious, through the sugar-sweet water of Mermaid's Lagoon and out to the Jolly Roger.

"I fell," he repeats, and his voice is steady.

Emma doesn't make a sound, but Regina knows that she's holding in a sigh, too. "Okay," Emma says, and Regina hates when she sounds so sad. "But… if you _fall_, again. You'll tell us you fell?"

It's quiet for a moment, the only sound the snapping oil and fat from the pan. It isn't loud enough to cover the scritch in Henry's throat, the way his voice is ready to crack from emotion and not puberty. "I'll tell you," he agrees.

It's something, even if it's awful. "Set the table, please, sweetheart," Regina manages to get out while switching the chops out for the next two. "Extra napkins for your slob of a mother."

"_Hey!_"

* * *

Emma's dozing on the couch in the living room by the time Regina comes in the with Tupperware of leftovers and a mug of coffee. "I'm sorry my call woke you," she murmurs, puts the coffee directly in Emma's hand and leaves the Tupperware on the end table. "I thought he'd tell _you_ the truth, at least—"

"No, no, it was the right call, I'm glad you called," Emma says quickly, sitting up to take a sip. "God—this is—you're sure you don't want to run a coffee shop?"

Regina cocks an eyebrow, settles into the armchair by the doorway. "Serving the peasantry _en masse_? Miss Swan."

Emma grins, winks at her. "How bout just for the Sheriff's station?"

"Serving the peasantry in close quarters? Miss Swan." But she smiles back, tucks her feet under her and savors the moment of not needing to put on a show. "If you'd moved with your parents, you could have stopped here before work regularly."

"Weren't you the one who pointed out that being over thirty and living with my fairytale parents was possibly the worst option when it came to establishing my independence?"

She chuckles, tugs her sweater's sleeves down from her elbows and wraps her fingers in the cuffs. "I said nothing about _your_ independence. I was concerned about _Henry's_."

"Mmm, no, the only thing you said about Henry was _if Snow White gets to interfere with my parenting on a regular basis, I will destroy_—"

"_Silence_, Miss Swan," Regina interrupts, because Emma's impression of her is terrible. She never sounds so shrill.

Emma just laughs, leans back and sits the mug against her collarbones, closes her eyes to inhale the aroma and steam. "So," she says after a few moments. "I was thinking I'd take the patrol car around when school lets out, do a drive by for a couple of days, see what's what."

Regina frowns, picks at a piece of fuzz on her thigh. "Starting when? You're on nights until next rotation."

"Starting tomorrow," Emma says slowly, as if it should be obvious.

"School lets out in the middle of the afternoon."

"Yes, it does."

"You're _sleeping_."

"I can _wake up_."

Regina closes her eyes, can't help but smile a little. "It would be one thing if you were actually on duty, Emma, but Henry knows your schedule. You show up in the squad car any time before Tuesday and he'll know you're watching him."

"So he knows."

"Emma."

Emma's nostrils flare with frustration, but she just rolls her eyes and looks away, sulks for a moment. "Okay. You're not cool with that idea. What do you suggest?"

"I think the idea of the patrol car is a good one, but you shouldn't be the one to do it, is all," Regina says softly, waits for Emma to give that reluctant, pacified shrug. "Who's on days?"

"Mulan." Of course Mulan isn't the only one, but they both know that of the five deputies, Mulan's the only relevant name.

"I'd trust her to observe. And to indulge us. Wouldn't you?"

And she's got Emma there, because Emma would trust Mulan with Henry's life if push came to shove. Mere observation is a no brainer, and Mulan is perhaps the one person who understands how small acts of protection make a huge difference.

"To be honest," Emma starts slowly, "I thought you'd want to be more hands-on. You know, watch in your magic mirror, hex the little shits into next Sunday, the basics."

Anyone but Emma saying that—anyone but Emma drawling casually about _magic_—Regina smiles and can only smile because it's Emma. "Mmm. I haven't whipped up any poisoned apples in a while, maybe you're on to something."

Emma snickers into the mug, shakes her head. "_Cursed_ apples. Keep talking about poison and I'll have to actually be a sheriff."

"Heaven forbid," she teases, glances at the grandfather clock on the north wall when it marks the half-hour. "So you'll ask her?"

"Yeah. I'll ask her." Emma leans her head back on the couch, sighs. "I know you're right. I do. It's better if it's not us, but—he's _our kid_, Regina. It should be us."

Two years on and it doesn't sting as much, but talking to Emma about trusting other people with Henry still smarts, still makes her stomach churn. "We've had to rely on other people before. At least this time it's someone… honorable."

Emma closes her eyes again, and if it wasn't for the slight movement of her nostrils, Regina would think she was showing grief. She doesn't think she could stomach Emma grieving over Hook. "At least there's that," Emma finally agrees, and drains the last of the coffee. "I should get to work. Thanks for dinner, and for my breakfast," she adds, picking up the Tupperware.

"Save that for tomorrow night."

"I have food at home."

"Peanut butter and jelly is not _food_, Miss Swan." Emma's sheepish grin says everything. Regina sighs heavily, shakes her head. "I'm serious. You do need to eat better."

"Says the woman who dips everything in grease and butter."

"Keep complaining and you'll never get leftovers again."

Emma opens her mouth to protest and shuts it again. It doesn't last long, though; she has to stop at the door to try to get the last word. "I'm not a slob, you know."

"Two hours and one tablecloth later."

"I'm not! I just get… things get messy when I'm eating your—"

Regina actually turns around to look Emma dead in the face, because there's no way she thought about that before she said it. Sure enough, she's blushing furiously and making that pinched-mouth face like she's praying Regina didn't hear it.

"Food! The end of that sentence was _food!_"

Regina smirks.

"Oh, shut up," Emma grumbles, and stomps out of the house.


	2. Chapter 2

Possible trigger warning: bullying aftereffects.

* * *

Henry closes the front door quietly on Tuesday, although he locked his bike up in full view of the windows so Regina knows he isn't trying to hide. He knocks on the study door three times and she bites her lip so she won't cry. "Come in," she calls, and sets aside the revisions she's marking on the township code.

His eye is bruised and darkening, cheekbone swelling, and there's a red slash cutting across his left eyebrow. It's sick: her first conscious thought is that he'll match Emma. There are smaller scrapes on his forearms, smears of dirt on his pants and the shoulders of his shirt, a thin trail of dried blood directly below the eyebrow cut.

He lowers himself to the couch stiffly, and she has to hide her hands in her lap because they're shaking. "I fell again," he rasps.

She chokes on a sob, then shakes her head, tries to pull herself together. "I'm going to call Emma," she tells him, standing up, "and get the first aid kit."

He shakes his head, winces. "I texted her already."

"She's sleeping, she won't see it."

"Don't wake her up, Mom."

"Henry."

"Don't wake her up, she—"

"_Henry_," she says again, and he looks at her shaking, clenched fists, then looks away, tries to clear his throat. He won't ask for anything and it's going to break him. "I'll get you some water, too," she whispers, and lets her fingertips brush the back of his neck on her way out the door.

Emma answers on the third ring with a gruff, "R'g'a" that she supposes is meant to be her name. "Hen?"

"He has a black eye. He's moving stiffly." She fills a glass with cold water from the fridge and pulls out one of the small ice packs she used to put in his lunchbox. "He's cut on his eyebrow. Just like you."

She can hear exactly how Emma jolts to alertness, pushes up off the bed and sits up. The tell-tale jingle of her service belt—cuffs, keys, that ridiculous buckle—signals her pulling on her pants. "Check his ribs for bruising. Did he black out?"

"I don't know."

"Ask him. Don't worry about patching him up too good, we're taking him straight to the hospital. Is there a lot of blood? How deep is the cut?"

"No. I don't know."

She hears Emma pause in the clothing shuffle. "Regina. Keep it together, okay? Just for an hour. Just until he gets checked out by the doc. Just keep it together for an hour for me, okay?"

"I'm okay," she lies, and picks up the kitchen kit from the shelf above the sink. "Just… get here."

"On my way."

In the study, Henry's got his head back and eyes closed and he looks so much like Emma but so much like her baby boy—he _is_ her baby boy and people are hurting him and wasn't this the point of magic? So no one could ever hurt _hers_ again?

She puts the glass in his hand and curls his fingers around it, squeezes tightly before letting go to sit on the coffee table in front of him. "We're going to take you to the ER," she says—calmly, far calmer than she feels. "Did you lose consciousness?"

"No," he says, takes a sip of water.

"Emma wants me to check your ribs."

"Just a few punches." And then he looks stricken, covers his mouth with his free hand. "I mean—"

She just looks at him, touches his cheek. "Baby, it's okay." _Just talk to me_, she wants to beg, wants to cry.

He covers her hand with his, closes his eyes again. "I mean," he starts again, "I didn't fall hard."

Her throat closes up, but she just nods, takes her hand back. "Can I check them anyway?" Without answering, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt up to his sternum. There's three small reddening marks to the right of his navel, but nothing else that she can see. The few scraggly hairs he'd been mortified by a year ago have settled into a small but consistent patch of down in the center of his chest. She remembers when his stomach used to curve out from the rest of his body, when a precious layer of fat covered every bone. "All right. Let's clean that cut, yes?"

It isn't deep, just ugly and wide, so she takes her time with it, pauses to hold the ice pack to his cheekbone in one minute intervals. By the time she's done—three antiseptic wipes later—Emma's turning her key in the front door and stomping into the room. She's silent and scowling while she takes Henry's chin in her hand, turns his face from side to side. "How're the ribs?" is her first question.

"Three marks," Regina tells her.

"Consciousness?"

"I didn't black out," Henry mumbles. His voice is so small.

"Good to walk to the car or do you want my help?"

"I can walk," he says, and no one is surprised.

"Come on, then," Emma says, but helps him stand up anyway.

* * *

They want to do a CT scan at the hospital so while Henry changes into a gown, Emma steps away to call Mulan and get some answers. He opens the curtain and the nurse beats Regina into the bay, hustling him into a wheelchair and heading for the open corridor immediately. His face is pinched and pale and Regina reaches out, blocks the nurse's path and squats in front of the chair, holds and squeezes Henry's hands. "It'll be fine, sweetheart. Just a quick pass, and it's a lot more open than the MRI machine."

"That's the really big one, right?"

"Right. Big and claustrophobic. This one's a lot better." Henry nods, expression relaxing just slightly, and the nurse clears her throat.

Regina stands and lets them head toward the imaging lab, glances back towards Emma who is still speaking in a low and furious tone into her phone. It's impossible to make out what Emma says; part of her doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to know if they got him in the school yard or on one of the back streets or if Mulan missed it entirely or was a minute too late or left too early—

Fingertips against the small of her back make her jump and turn to see Emma and her indelible frown. "He got on his bike and made it to Carnavorn Street in one piece. No one followed him. That's all she knows."

"What does that mean?" she whispers.

Emma's hand slides towards her hip and then leaves her body entirely. She feels dizzy without it. "If they didn't follow, they were waiting up ahead. Ambush." She closes her eyes and feels the hand on her back, again, pushing lightly. "Come sit. They'll bring him back here when it's done."

The chairs outside of the ER bay are turmeric colored and cheap plastic with sharp corners and thin, uneven metal legs. She sits because Emma tells her to, doesn't comment on the chairs even though Emma winces when she sits, shifts her back away from the straight sharp edge of the chair back. "How's your back?" Regina asks, hears her voice hollow and coarse and tries to clear her throat.

"Irrelevant," Emma answers, but shoots a small smile of acknowledgment. "Not bad. Had heat therapy this morning."

"That's good."

She's entirely content to sit in silence until Henry returns, but Emma—as usual—only lasts about three minutes. "You know, one of my favorite memories of Henry," Emma starts, and Regina bites her tongue in preparation, "is watching you carry him up to bed that first night back."

Completely thrown, Regina stares at Emma. She remembers that first night—neither of them will ever forget—remembers struggling up the stairs with a then-twelve Henry, how tight his arms were around her neck and how his legs dangled from where she had him braced on her hip. Entirely too big to be carried but she wouldn't wake him up and couldn't let him go. "He was fast asleep, Emma. Practically unconscious and exhausted."

Emma nods, stretches her legs out in front of her. "Yeah."

It doesn't make sense. "How could that be your favorite memory? Out of everything—"

That peculiar, particularly enigmatic Emma Swan smile curls across those pink, pink lips; Regina tries to look away but can't. "Because everything about his whole body said he knew he was safe. You were holding him and he knew he was safe, even asleep."

Emma would. Emma _would_. She shakes her head, turns away. "Don't."

"This isn't your fault, Regina," Emma murmurs, taking Regina's hand

"You know why this is happening to him."

"No, we _don't_ know," she retorts, bringing her crossed ankles underneath her chair and frowning hard.

"Emma."

"Maybe some baby delinquent is trying to get back at me."

"Emma."

"Maybe Henry stole somebody's girl."

"_Emma_."

"Maybe somebody's a homophobic little shit."

"What?" Regina stutters, and pulls her hand back. "Henry said he's gay?"

Emma snorts. "I don't fucking know. Not the fucking point. He has two _moms_, Regina. Kids get beat up for less."

"But—we're not—everyone knows—"

"Nobody knows anything," Emma counters. "All it takes is one misunderstanding."

"Everyone knows who his mothers _are_, Emma. What's more likely, going after him because he has two mothers who are polar opposites and _not_ in a relationship or because one of his mothers ruined everyone else's life?"

Emma scowls, clenches her fist. "And the other one fixed everyone's fucking life so really, slate's clear."

Regina laughs, hollow and cold. "The slate is _never_ clear," she sighs. "You know that better than anyone."

Emma slumps in her chair, looks up at the ceiling. "We need to get a name out of him."

"You know he won't."

"I need you to back me up. Like, code blue backup."

Regina wants to roll her eyes, because she's pretty sure even Emma doesn't know what that dumb phrase actually means, but they keep using it anyway. "I will—you know I will, I always do—but it won't get us anywhere except further away from him."

"Doing it his way got him bruised up and sliced." The tension in Emma's jaw finishes the sentence: _that's not happening again._ Except they keep saying that. Keep swearing he'll never get hurt again.

Regina slowly reaches for Emma's clenched fist, puts her fingertips on the strong, pale knuckle points. "We could give him another way."

Emma looks at their hands, then at Regina's face. "My way or your way?"

"Yours," Regina whispers.

"Fuck," Emma says, and closes her eyes.

* * *

Even though Emma's off for the next two days, they all agree that Henry will stay at the house; no one pretends that his room in Emma's apartment is nearly as plush as his room at the house. Emma comes over at the very last hour of her shift on Wednesday and drives him to school, comes back and grabs the toolkit from the garage. She does a round of quick fixes for the outside of the house and then the basement and laundry room, taking a break when Regina sets a plate of silver dollar pancakes and scrambled eggs next to a mug of milky coffee at the island seat that is maybe, kind of, labelled "Emma."

Regina starts to wonder if maybe the homophobic little shit idea is so impossible.

She has to pick Henry up from school because Emma falls asleep on the study couch around two and refuses to budge when Regina tries to nudge her awake. "Two legs and car keys, you go," she grumbles, and pulls a pillow over her face. Technically, it's the middle of her night, but she's transitioning to the day schedule and Regina knows how rough that can get for her, how letting her sleep through the afternoon is the kindest thing Regina could do.

The thing is, if the homophobic little shit idea is wrong, Regina should never go near Henry's school again.

But she parks across the street from the high school and sends him a text so he'll look for the Benz, watches the finally-aging teenagers swarm out of the building when the doors open at 2:45. Henry isn't the first or the last but solidly in the middle, chatting to two shorter classmates that Regina only vaguely recognizes. Emma probably knows their names; Henry only has friends over when he's at the apartment.

If they're friends. Friends wouldn't let him get hurt, would they? They're smaller kids, though, and the boy is particularly thin. The girl has strong shoulders and the way she walks reminds Regina of Emma, a little; half-posturing, half-defense.

_Ava_. That's the girl's name. Ava, and her brother Nicholas. Sometime-friends, then.

Henry pauses outside the schoolyard gate, scans the street twice before he sees the car, and his face brightens just enough to make the ugly, nauseating burning between Regina's lungs ease, just slightly. After a half-beat hesitation—probably to say goodbye—he jogs across the street, thumbs hooked into his backpack straps. "Hey, Mom," he says as soon as he plops into the passenger seat, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"You didn't look before crossing the street."

"Mom," Henry groans, and she smiles, holds her hand against his cheek for just a second. The bandage over his eyebrow looks fresh; he'd gone to the nurse, then. "I could see."

"Still." And then she relents, starts the car again. "How was your day?"

Henry laughs, and hope bubbles up underneath that burning. "Grandma tried to ask me if you'd hit me, but I stopped her by telling her all about how we all went to fight a dragon last night and I totally got this from dodging its tail and colliding with Ma's elbow instead."

She bites her tongue, reminds herself that Snow White is Henry's beloved grandmother and Emma has been nothing but deferential to her own wishes for the past two years. It's too long to be silent, though; Henry puts his hand over hers on the gear shift, stops her from shifting into drive. "As in, _I _know she's ridiculous, and Ma knows she's ridiculous, so screw it."

"_Language_." But she smiles for him, because this—this moment of _you're my mom_—is a precious, precious gift. He doesn't quite smile back, distracted by something out the window, and Regina turns to follow his gaze. All she sees is Nicholas, talking to two older-looking boys with lacrosse sticks . "Did Nicholas join lacrosse?"

He shakes his head. "No. Guess they're just friends." Something about his tone—hollow, shaky—makes her want to push, but he interrupts before she can get a word out. "Did Ma come back to the house after she dropped me off?"

She nods, shifts into drive and steers out of the parking spot carefully. "Yes. And she's asleep on the couch, by the way, so quiet when we go in."

* * *

After dinner, they push the couches to the periphery of the living room and set up a few piles of cushions and throw pillows. Henry helps without asking questions after just one sideways look at Emma and the too-tight, too-tense set to her jaw.

Barefoot and in the cut-off sweats she keeps stashed in the guest bedroom, Emma bounces on the balls of her feet, shakes out her shoulders and cracks her neck. Henry takes two quick steps back, towards the door, and Regina _hurts_, but Emma smiles widely. "Good, we can skip lesson one, then."

"You will skip _nothing_," Regina cuts in, and Emma just sticks out her tongue.

"Lesson one: you see a fight coming, get the hell out of there."

Henry looks between the two of them slowly, lingering on Regina for a beat longer before returning to Emma. "You're teaching me to fight," he stutters out, and looks to Regina once more.

Emma stays silent, and Regina is grateful for the chance to smile at their slowly-breaking boy, smile and nod. "We flipped for it," she says calmly, "and then your mother reminded me of the time she had me pinned in under a minute."

Henry gapes, and looks back to Emma. "You guys _fought_?"

"Chainsaw days," Emma shrugs, and Regina scowls. "Long gone. Now, come on, lesson two. If you have to fight, find a good place to stand. What makes a good place?"

Henry's just beginning to light up with energy, and he looks around the room carefully. "Exit access?"

Emma smiles, quick and bright, and when Henry smiles back with the same sideways tilt to his mouth, Regina feels her heart open and open and open.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ms. Mills?"

"Yes, who is this?" she demands.

"This is Sandra, at Storybrooke Secondary—"

She wants to vomit. "Is it Henry? What happened?"

Whoever this Sandra is sighs, clears her throat. "There's been an altercation. The principal is requesting a meeting with his mother and that he be picked up."

_His mother_. Regina closes her eyes, tries to pay attention. "What do you mean, altercation? Is he—"

"The Sheriff requested that I tell you she's on her way to pick you up. Good day, Ms. Mills."

The dull click and silence that follows is enough to send her into a rage, and she almost throws her phone against the wall but stops mid-motion, feels something in her shoulder grinding against the socket at the unnatural halt. The cruiser is outside and honking, and Regina bites her tongue, heads towards the front door and grabs her coat.

As soon as she closes the passenger door, Emma steps on the gas and rockets them down the street. "I'm sorry," she starts with, and Regina looks up from fumbling with the seatbelt, confused. "I left my cell at the apartment and these fuckers, they're fucking idiots, apparently all this happened two hours ago but I was stuck on that webinar with Portland PD and they assumed that having you down as primary emergency contact was a mistake, some shit about not updating records, so they left me messages for two hours and then finally called the station again. I chewed that Sandra bitch the fuck out for not calling you when—"

Regina reaches out and puts a hand over Emma's, tries not to pay attention to how her fingers fit so well between Emma's raised knuckles. "_You_ don't owe me any apologies. Do you know what happened?"

Emma's grip on the steering wheel tightens momentarily, then loosens, and she spreads her fingers out to take Regina's between them properly. "A fight," she sighs, and takes the left turn quickly, letting the steering wheel spin through her stationary right hand. "Actual fist fight."

"Is he all right?"

"They said they had the nurse look at him."

"Two hours ago."

"Two hours ago," Emma repeats grimly, and guns it through a yellow light.

They don't speak until they've parked in the fire zone in front of the school and gotten out of the car; Regina tugs on the sleeve of Emma's uniform jacket, makes her turn to look her in the eye. "We'll deal with their… ineptitude about contact procedures later, okay? Right now isn't the time."

Emma nods, doesn't even try to act indignant. "Yeah. I know."

Inside, Henry's sitting on a plastic chair outside of the principal's office with a smear of dried blood on his shirt, and Regina can't help the sound that comes out of her mouth, the way she kneels in front of him with trembling hands and inspects every inch of him that she can.

"It's not mine," he tells her softly, and when she looks up at his face, he's looking over at Emma and his mouth is making that funny shape, that _I'm not smiling_ shape. "I'm fine."

"Henry," she hisses sternly, and pinches his knee. "This is not—"

"First blood?" Emma interrupts softly, and when Henry nods she offers him a fist bump. "Atta boy."

Regina closes her eyes, rests her forehead on her son's knee for a moment. "Tell us what happened."

He opens his mouth to explain but the door to the office swings open. "Emma." Snow clears her throat loudly. "Regina. I didn't expect to see you."

She can feel Henry tense up and sees how Emma shifts her body just slightly, squaring off against her mother. "You asked to see his mother," Emma replies. "I brought her."

With a squeeze to Henry's hand—blood crusted on the heels of his palms—Regina gets to her feet, watches Snow White fold her lips and cross her arms in clear displeasure. "Come in, then," Snow finally says, and steps aside to let both of them into the office.

Emma hesitates, gives Henry one last glance and a touch to the shoulder before looking back at Regina and nodding. Only then does she step into the office, and for a moment Regina is frozen, just wondering, until finally Henry nudges her and she follows Emma in.

Snow's office is, of course, a pastel horror, with whimsical white wood furniture and more of the "rescued" decor that Mary Margaret had been so fond of. Emma doesn't sit when Snow gestures to the mismatched visitors' armchairs, but does pull one slightly back from the desk. Regina takes the cue, sits confidently with her back against the uncushioned wood. She can feel Emma's hands behind her shoulder blades, focuses on the knobs of the three rings Emma wears and how they press into her flesh, uses that feeling to disperse the tension in her jaw and around her eyes. "Well, Snow?" she starts, and suppresses a smile when Snow White flinches.

It's the little triumphs that matter, because Snow always seems to have the winning hand in the end. "Henry punched John Dorman. That's how the fight started. John is now at home, nursing a nosebleed."

Very carefully, Regina pushes one shoulder back to press into Emma's hand as a warning. "Henry doesn't start fights," Emma says stonily, and Regina eases up the pressure.

"He did today."

"According to who?"

"Several student witnesses and Henry himself."

Their son's selective use of honesty is beginning to become an obstacle. "Why have you called us in, Snow White? We are all familiar with the school code and how no one approved the zero-tolerance policy in the last referendum, so any disciplinary action Henry faces is entirely at your discretion." She feels Emma's fingers press forward, blunted nails catching on her silk shirt.

"It is," Snow agrees. "I've called you in because we are all also familiar with Henry's… special situation."

She can't help it, then; her jaw snaps shut with a click and she's broadcasting anger loud and clear. Emma steps in, still pressing her fingers into Regina's back. "What does that mean, Mom? It was two years ago."

For a moment, Snow looks to have aged a decade; there is a peculiar weariness around her eyes, fatigue in the way her shoulders droop. "Look, you understand that I have to toe the line between being his principal and his grandmother." Regina zeroes in on the way Snow twists her pen around in her hands, chews at her lip between sentences. "The Dormans want him expelled, and I want him to start up counseling again."

"He does not want therapy," Regina says, clear and clipped, and the weight of Emma's whole hand is suddenly on her right shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"There have been… complaints, all afternoon, of Henry displaying unusual aggression towards other students over the past few weeks," Snow informs them.

"Only this afternoon?" Emma asks, and her thumb draws circles above the peak of Regina's shoulder blade. "Odd that they'd only come forward now."

Snow looks between Regina's shoulder and Emma's face, purses her lips. "Apparently, no one really thought anything of it until today." She shifts her weight, takes a step back to lean against the filing cabinets behind her desk. "I think it's clear that he does need anger management lessons. And you know that if you don't voluntarily take him, I can mandate sessions."

Regina's anger is white-hot and so quick in its flare-up that she barely registers that Emma is speaking. "Do you know what made him throw the punch? What provoked him?"

"John said he and a few other boys were practicing jokes about magic for the talent show next week. I verified it; they are signed up to do a comedy act."

"And what did Henry say?" Regina asks pointedly.

Snow looks at her for a long, quiet moment. "Nothing," she answers. "Henry gave no details about anything that happened beyond admitting that he threw the first punch. I can't say I'm surprised, because Henry barely talks anymore."

"He talks plenty," Emma mumbles distractedly, and Regina can't help the single huff of laughter she releases. "So you're gonna go with whatever this Dorman kid said, and you're—what, you're gonna expel your grandson?"

Snow frowns, and it looks so much like Henry's own scowl that Regina has to look away. "No. Like I said, I have to toe the line between being a principal and being his grandmother." There's a long pause, and Regina can't bring herself to look. "In school suspension for two weeks, including mandatory morning sessions with Dr. Hopper."

"He doesn't want to talk to Archie, Mom," Emma says, and her voice trembles, and Regina reaches across her own body and covers Emma's hand with hers. "We tried and tried and he _won't do it_. You know this. You know we took him in, we sat with him, we waited outside, we brought him in for whole mornings—"

"Dr. Hopper will be instructed to pursue anger management counseling, not active therapy," Snow interrupts, and the clinical bureaucratic tone to her words makes the plaintive way Emma was speaking hurt even more. "Henry's been through a lot, and he's still just a little boy. We have to do whatever we can—"

"Because forcing your will on an unsuspecting youth has worked out so well in the past," Regina hisses, and rises from the chair.

"Regina—"

"Enough, Snow. You know full well that Henry would never—he wouldn't even defend _himself_. You have to know that he's been coming home hurt, attacked, and yet you're standing there talking about _helping_ him by—"

"I have to go with the facts I have as principal," Snow says softly, and Regina scoffs.

"And you _always_ have all the facts, don't you?"

Snow's chin wobbles for a moment, but her eyes are hard and her mouth sets quickly. "Perhaps not, but at least I do the right thing with what I've got."

"Mom," Emma warns, and steps forward, edges Regina towards the door with a hand to her elbow. "We're done here."

"You have nothing to say about Henry's punishment?"

Emma sighs heavily, pushes her free hand through her hair. "Do whatever you want. We're stuck doing damage control no matter what you choose."

Outside the office, Henry is flexing his fingers, watching how the skin over his knuckles stretches and discolors with the movement. "So, Archie?" he asks, and Emma reaches out past Regina's body, ruffles his hair.

Regina just looks at the bruises on his jaw, and how the not-quite-healed cut on his eyebrow is leaking red onto the bandage. "Molida for dinner?" she asks.

Emma says yes before Henry has even processed the question, and when Regina rolls her eyes, Henry laughs and laughs.

* * *

Anger management apparently consists of deep breathing exercises and mindless mantras of "I am not my rage." Henry tells both of them about the first two days of ISS with eye-rolls punctuating almost every sentence. "I don't even _have_ rage, Mom," he complains, and plops another serving of rice onto his plate.

"Jeez, kid, save some for the working stiffs," Emma grumbles, and takes the spoon from him.

"Save some for the _growing boy_, Sheriff," Regina reminds her pointedly, but it is Henry's third helping, and Emma said something about missing lunch. "I know you don't, Henry."

"Well—wait. I mean, do you? Have… rage?" Emma asks, spooning red beans over both her and Henry's plates.

He scoffs, but then thinks about it. "I—I dunno. I don't think so?"

"So every time you _fall_," and Emma emphasizes it with an ugly sneer, "you don't get mad? You don't want to just… beat them down?"

This is so far off-script that Regina feels her throat tighten with that old, old panic, and she kicks Emma square in the ankle under the table. Emma doesn't react, though, except to inhale sharply.

Henry glances over at Regina like he knows what's going on, but chews quietly for a few minutes. "I'm mad before… before I fall," he says. "I get pissed off—sorry, Mom—I get mad before anything actually happens."

Emma's put her fork down and her left hand is twitching in the space between their place settings. Regina keeps her eyes on Emma's index finger, on the thin silver and black band that never shines. "Why?" Regina asks softly, looks up just in time to meet Emma's eyes.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Henry fidgeting, working out the words to tell the truth without telling the truth. "People say things," he mumbles.

They wait, and wait, looking at each other and not at their boy, their precious baby boy who needs them _so much_—they wait but that's all he gives them, and there's something in Emma's eyes that says _don't push_.

"Don't eat too much," Regina says softly, and finally looks at Henry again, manages to make a smile reach her eyes. "You have another lesson tonight."

* * *

"Arms up," Emma snaps, and Henry lifts his tired arms into his basic guard position. "You couldn't run, so now you fight. What's behind you?"

"Solid."

"Left side?"

"Solid."

"Right side?"

"Escape."

"Ahead?"

"Mark."

Emma circles him slowly, eyes scanning for _right_ and _wrong_. She steps in behind him quickly, touches the middle of his back. "Too tense at the butt."

"M_aaa_," Henry squirms away from her, nose crinkled in embarrassment.

"Fine, strain a glute, come to PT with me every three days for the rest of your teenage life."

They might disagree about what Henry should learn and know about when, but Regina can't ever disagree with the way Emma lays out the stakes. Henry sighs, grumbles, resumes his position, and somehow meets Emma's approval.

She circles around to face him, smiles. "What's your weakness?"

"Size," he says, and sidesteps Emma's forward kick.

"Strength?"

"Surprise, speed."

"Hit," Emma commands, and holds up one hand with a punching pad strapped to it at roughly four inches above Henry's eye line. He pulls back his arm and thrusts forward with an open hand, striking the midline of the pad with the heel of his palm, then returning to his basic position. "Again," Emma orders, and again, and again.

This is how the lessons go: words and drills and words and drills until a drill turns into a spar until Henry is sweating and panting and Emma is winded and holding the small of her back and they are laughing and still trying to score hits and it doesn't matter that they have matching scars on their eyebrows or that Emma is teaching him to fight so he can stop coming home with black eyes because this is all they have now—

They move on to block-and-hit combos, and Regina watches carefully for Emma's small nod, rises from her chair in the corner and moves like she means to exit the room, then slips on a set of pads and circles around to Henry's right. He's focused on Emma until a blur of blue comes at him, and he shifts his stance and blocks all in one fluid motion, quick enough to bring a smile of approval to Emma's face. "Good," she says, almost shouts, and Regina winks at Henry, comes in with her left and holds up her right. He blocks and hits in sequence with his right, keeps his left up against Emma, and for a moment there's something fierce and bright in his eyes, as foreign as his smile when they first found him on the island.

And then he is Henry again, and dodging her swing and ducking under her raised hand to tackle her back into a pile of cushions, tickling her before she can even begin to get the pads off her hands, and Emma rushes in and she thinks she's about to get help except Emma pins her arms, still with the red pads on her hands, and it's unfair but Henry is laughing, Emma is laughing, and isn't laughter the point?

Didn't they give up _everything_ for laughter?

* * *

Emma stays after Henry goes to bed, sprawls out on the cushions still littered across the living room floor with her tank top rucked up to bare her stomach and a towel draped over her shoulders. "We should drink," she mumbles when Regina re-enters the room. "We should drink a lot."

"Should we?" Regina says carefully, and takes Emma's hand, curls her rough fingers around the glass of water she brought in.

They look at each other in silence for a moment before Emma looks away, huffs, takes a few sips of water. "Maybe we should have stuck with the therapy thing."

"We tried for almost a year, Emma. He wouldn't—"

"I _know_ that," Emma says, and it's half a howl, half a whimper. "I know that."

Sometimes she forgets that this is so very brand new for Emma—that feeling so much for someone so dependent is a completely foreign sensation. "You were hard on him today," Regina murmurs, and sinks to her knees next to Emma, sits back on her heels. "What are you thinking?"

It's not accusatory, even though Emma's first reaction is to tense and start to sit up. The muscles of her upper abdomen flex into stark relief, then soften and recede as she lays back again. "He gets mad at whatever they're saying, and that makes him want to fight, and then he gets beat, and he doesn't get mad at that part." Regina waits and wishes she didn't, because Emma chokes on a sob and tries to bury it in the water glass but fails miserably. "He doesn't get mad that he's getting hit, Regina. He doesn't get mad that he's getting hit."

Slowly, slowly, she takes the glass from Emma's hand, sets it to the side and reaches an arm around Emma's shoulders. She hates how easily Emma curls into her side, how easily Emma shifts to muffle her cries in Regina's lap, how easily her fingers take to undoing the loose ponytail Emma kept her hair in for Henry's lessons. She won't shush her, won't tell her _it's okay_, but holding her—after everything, holding her is nothing.

"We did it all wrong," Emma finally whispers, fingers curling against the inseam of Regina's yoga pants. "We did it all wrong. He's broken and we can't fix him because we broke everything that could help." A particularly brutal thought hits her; her whole face clenches and reddens in a burst of pain that makes Regina's lungs tighten and burn. "He wasn't supposed to be like us," she whispers, and Regina closes her eyes, stills her hand at Emma's temple.

"Emma," she says softly, and moves her fingertips to tuck a few strands of hair behind Emma's ear. "Have hope."

Emma opens her eyes, looks up at Regina in—shock? After everything, she'd thought they were done surprising each other. "But—there's no _magic_," Emma rasps, and her grip on Regina's thigh tightens painfully.

"Silly girl," Regina smiles. "There wasn't for you, either."

"He's not supposed to be like me."

"He has two parents who love him past all reason. He has two grandparents who spoil him rotten. No matter what he goes through now, he'll never be like you, Emma. He'll never be like me."

Somehow, looking at Emma's red-rimmed eyes and seeing the glittering dust of the diamond spilling out across the water of the Mermaid Lagoon, remembering how they'd shivered together with their baby boy in the abandoned captain's cabin—it all makes her believe in beginning again. "He has true love without end," she adds, runs the pad of her ring finger along the soft and creasing skin at the corner of Emma's eye to stop the last traces of tears, "and true love is the most powerful magic of all."

Later, she'll think it should have been her, should have started with her, but when Emma reaches up to cup her cheek, draws her down to press their lips together—softly, just a whisper of a kiss—she surrenders to it with a small sweet sigh and a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

_Guys. Any explanations of the afterlife included within are DUMBED DOWN SO AS TO FIT INTO A SEMI-PARAGRAPH. I promise if you want to talk religion, I can send you 40,000 words on the construction of a greater reward for a mortal journey, but like… this was not the vehicle for deep musings on the fate of the soul?_

_I'm totally lying, I can't send you 40k words like THAT but if you gave me a little while I could throw maybe 5k together?_

* * *

When Sandra at the front desk calls the next time, Regina is handing in her latest notes for the next council meeting and talking her way out of the now-routine lunch invitation from Kathryn. "It's probably not a good idea," she says, the same line as every previous week, and Kathryn gives her the same sad smile.

"We'll never know if we don't try, will we?" she tries, and it almost hurts, how earnestly Kathryn is seeking to forgive her.

"Kathryn," Regina sighs just as her phone begins to buzz. She manages to look at the screen of her phone before Kathryn can add another plea, and frowns deeply, swipes to answer. "Regina Mills," she says clearly, and holds her breath.

"Ms. Mills, this is Sandra from Storybrooke Secondary School. The principal is requesting that either you or the Sheriff come in for an immediate disciplinary meeting."

"Is my son all right?" she demands, getting to her feet, and Kathryn rises with her, face showing the alarm Regina feels pulsing in her fingertips. "Is Henry all right?"

Sandra huffs. "Ms. Mills, the Sheriff made clear that I was to inform you of any requests from the administration, but she said nothing about informing you of the physical state of her son."

"_Our_ son," Regina spits, and has to fight to keep her anger down below her lungs. "Is he hurt?"

"Good day, Ms. Mills."

She stares at the phone for a moment before looking up at Kathryn, holding both of their coats over one arm and car keys in the other hand. "I'll give you a ride," she says quietly. "Why don't you call Emma?"

Emma says she'll meet them at the school and pulls up with lights going, parks in the fire zone again but completely crooked. She leaves the lights flashing and manages to give Kathryn a smile before breaking every rule they've ever had and pulling Regina into a hug right away. "Bruised, that's all they said, okay? Bruised. Conscious and bruised."

She pushes at Emma's shoulders, takes two steps back and pulls all her wild pieces back in to herself. "Thank you for the ride, Kathryn," she murmurs, and turns towards the row of doors leading into the building.

"If you need anything else," Kathryn starts, and Regina can't help but turn, can't help but meet clear and compassionate eyes, "I'm here."

She has to turn away, forces Emma to say _thank you_ on her behalf—and that's too much, because who is Emma to say anything for her—because Henry is bruised, Henry is bruised, and whose fault is that?

They pause outside the main office; Emma's fingertips graze her elbow but don't linger. "Jesus," Emma whispers. "Is that the kid?"

Henry sits with an icepack covering half of his face, slumped in the same chair as the last time, but across the office is a behemoth of a boy in a lacrosse sweatshirt with a swelling, purpling eye and a dark stain under his nose. Lacrosse boy is at least twice Henry's size, probably older by at least three years, golden-haired and golden-skinned except for the clear strike marks on his face and neck. Regina doesn't need to look closely to know they are just the size and shape of Henry's palm-heels.

"He's _enormous_," Regina whispers back, and the backs of their hands touch just long enough.

Henry chooses that moment to look up, and when the half of his mouth visible around the white plastic quirks just slightly, Regina has half a mind to beat him herself.

"In my defense—I never told him to pick fights with baby grizzly bears and you _know_ that," Emma whispers, "so don't you even start with the 'your son' shit."

"Sheriff?" The door to the office swings open and the Abominable Sandra gestures towards Snow's office. "She's waiting for you."

Just like last time, they pause in front of Henry, and he avoids Regina's eyes like he's ten and keeping secrets again. "Hi," he mumbles.

Regina reaches out and lifts the ice pack from his face, bites her tongue to hold in the gasp. Emma doesn't, and their fingers probe the mottled flesh on his cheekbone and jaw in tandem. Henry hisses but doesn't pull away, and after a moment Emma leans over him and kisses his hair, holds him against her.

Behind them, there is a slight commotion, and Regina looks over her shoulder to see a equally stocky man and woman fussing over the Lacrosse Giant and shooting dark glares in their direction. Emma clears her throat and gives Regina an unmistakable look, opens the door to Snow's office and waits for Regina to lay a hand on the back of Henry's neck and guide him into the office, away from the anger and judgment. For one brief, bright moment, Emma lays her hand on top of Regina's, fingers lacing together to shepherd their boy into a chair, and then the door closes behind them.

* * *

The drive to the house is silent; Emma hasn't said a word since they left the school. Snow mandated a month of ISS and anger management. A month means that Henry will need to go to summer school to make up the missed classes. A month means thirty days in which he'll come home tense and exhausted and he'll sleep fitfully and wake up stressed out and defensive.

Regina wants to just close her eyes and go to sleep and wake up—some other time. Some other place. Where Henry is safe and universally loved and won't ever need to know how to strike at the soft parts of the face and body.

Emma parks the cruiser and comes inside with them. Confused, Henry hovers in the foyer, tries to figure out if he's supposed to stay or go, but when Emma heads straight into the study, Regina nods for him to go. "Go put the ice pack in the freezer, first, then go wash up, all right?"

He nods, starts towards the kitchen, then turns around and wraps his arms around her waist, hugs her hard. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't—I never meant to disappoint you guys."

Everything _hurts_. "Oh, sweetheart," she sighs, and kisses his hair. "No, I know. It's a difficult situation, and you're doing the best you can. We all are." She wants to say _you didn't, you didn't_, but the truth is that he has—just not in any way she knows how to explain.

When he is upstairs and she can hear the bath running, she follows Emma's path into the study, closes the door softly. "Is it too early for a drink?" Emma asks. Her voice is raspy, rough; she's sitting hunched over with her back to the door, using her hair like a curtain.

"Depends on what you plan on drinking," Regina says quietly, and comes around the couch, sits on the coffee table facing Emma. She wants to put out a hand, lift Emma's chin, but—not yet. Not yet.

"Well, I dunno. What's the appropriate drink for 'Congratulations, you dumb fuck, your son's a carbon copy of you'?"

If this is self-pity—there's no room for that, and Regina's hands grip the edge of the table tightly to rein in the flash of irritation. "Is he?" is all she says.

Emma barks out a laugh, and lifts her head, and the look on her face—Regina deflates. This isn't self-pity. This isn't self-pity at all. "Teach him to _defend_ himself, and he goes and picksa fight with the biggest fucking kid in the school? Yeah, Regina, that's classic Emma Swan right there."

For a moment, she's without words. "I thought it was more patented Mills," she finally says, and tries to smile. "After all, he _won_."

Emma's conflicted expression breaks, just for a moment, into a smile, and that's the trick; the snapping tension between them dissolves. "C'mere?" Emma asks, and Regina lets herself be pulled into Emma's lap, hums quietly when she feels Emma exhale into the curve of her neck. "Thank you for… handling everything. I should have been more… I dunno, present? But I just… I should've been there for him. So thank you."

She sighs, lifts her palm to Emma's cheek briefly. "He said he's sorry for disappointing us."

"Fuck."

It's the most appropriate reaction to the idea. "I don't know what we're supposed to do now."

"We can still do your way." At Regina's questioning sound, Emma tilts her head back, tries to smile. "Manipulation and blackmail."

"Of _children?"_

"Of their parents," Emma corrects, but even as she says it, she seems to realize how many obstacles stand in the way of that plan. They don't know who all the kids are, and now that Henry's gone on the offensive they're at a disadvantage, and getting enough material on so many people will take time that he doesn't have.

"Your way was always the only way," Regina murmurs, and kisses the very corner of Emma's mouth. "Maybe—maybe it will work out. He was smart about this, at least."

"How do you figure?"

"He went for the largest target, brought him down in front of all the other kids." Before she gets the next sentence out, she's realizing what other questions they have to find the answers to. "He… made himself the alpha?" she questions softly, and meets Emma's slowly-understanding gaze. "Has he been talking to Ruby?"

Emma furrows her brow to think. "Maybe? They chat when we're at the diner. But I don't think—nah, Ruby wouldn't give him advice like that without talking to us about it."

That's true, or true enough; Regina lets her weight sag against Emma's upper body, forces them to rest against the back of the couch. "Maybe he figured it out on his own, then."

"Hell of a thing to just _figure out_."

"He's a hell of a boy." They're silent, because Henry is and has always been extraordinary in so many ways, but not this way, never this way. "What happens next?" Regina asks softly, winds one of Emma's curls around her finger. From the way Emma's body tenses up underneath her, Regina knows that _anything_ is her answer, so she doesn't push, just rests her forehead against Emma's and breathes in, and in, and in.

* * *

When Henry knocks on her bedroom door, Regina doesn't set aside her novel but does watch him approach the bed over the top of her glasses. "Hi," he says, still holding ice to the bruising on his jaw.

"Hi, sweetheart." She smiles at him, cocks her head. "Still icing it?"

"Ten more minutes, Ma said."

"Come sit with me," she urges, pats the left side of the bed. He used to insist on sleeping on her left, back when she was capable of taking away the bad dreams, so her dominant hand would always be free to protect him.

He's always thought about things like that, she realizes. How to be safe, how to be strong.

Henry clambers over her legs, just like he used to when he was five, and sprawls out on the empty side of the bed, then rolls onto his right side to face her, keeps the ice pack sitting on his cheek. "Did you take the ibuprofen yet?" He opens his hand to show her the three candy-coated tablets, and she has to laugh. "Oh, so you really just came in here because you're too lazy to go downstairs and get your own water?"

He makes a face, points to his jaw. "I'm _hurt_, Mom. Who knows if I can manage the stairs by myself."

She finally sets the novel down, leans over to kiss his temple. Everything is horrible but at least there is this: affection, freely given, willingly received. "Because you needed so much help when dinner was ready."

"I _had_ help," he counters. "The gods of pork had my back."

She laughs again, combs her fingers through his hair. "I'm glad you weren't more seriously hurt," she whispers, and sees Henry's torso curl in defensively. "Fighting Teddy was a very foolish thing to do."

He says nothing, but his fingers press into the side of her knee, solid pressure to remind her that he's here.

"Come on, sit up to take the medicine." She takes the sleeve of his t-shirt between thumb and forefinger, tugs three times, then reaches over to her nightstand to pass him the glass of water sitting there while he sits up. He takes a sip of water, holds it in his mouth and tilts his head back, pops the pills in, then takes two more sips before finally swallowing. Regina takes the glass back, takes two sips herself and sets it aside.

She half-expects Henry to leave now that he's gotten what he came for, but is pleased when he leans into her side and closes his eyes. "Tired?" she asks, and he nods against her shoulder, eyes still closed.

"What happens when people die?"

Regina freezes, feels something like panic banging against her ribs. "What do you mean?"

"Like… when they die, what happens to their soul?" He doesn't look up, but his grip on her hand is tight, tight, tight. "Is there a heaven and a hell? And what decides where you go? And how—is it like going to the Enchanted Forest, or—or Neverland, where you need a portal, or is it like the Netherworld where you just _go_, and—what happens when you die, Mom?"

She holds him close against her body and says the only thing she can. "I don't know, baby." After a moment, she keeps going, tries to give him _something_. "Some people, back in the Enchanted Forest, they believed that there was a heaven, and a hell, and that good people went to heaven and bad people went to hell. But they didn't really know what to do with people who were in-betweens. There wasn't really any room for in-betweens, right?"

He nods, squeezes her hand tighter.

"And some other people, they believed that your energy was… reallocated, let's say. That your spirit fused with some slowly-growing thing, came back into being."

"Like reincarnation?"

"Like reincarnation."

"And it happened to everyone? Regardless if they were good or bad?"

"To everyone," Regina affirms. "But if you'd done more things to benefit the world than harm it, you… _upgraded_, let's call it. So maybe if you'd been born a peasant, you'd come back as a prince. And if you'd been born a prince, you could come back as… an eagle. Or a swan."

She knows he smiles at that, can feel how his breathing shifts. "What if… what if something happened to you, and you weren't in control of your body anymore, and your body did bad things?"

It hurts so much, so much, but she tamps down on the sobs caught in her throat and sighs against the crown of his head. "If there is a heaven and a hell, Henry, there is no doubt in my mind that every one of the Lost Boys went to heaven as the people they were before Neverland. And if there's reincarnation, then half of them are princes and the other half are learning to fly."

He says nothing, but lets her hold him quietly until he falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Six copies of Chapter 80 of the municipal code are spread out around the head of the conference table, and Kathryn sighs, leans back and rubs at her temples. "Honestly, I genuinely do not care enough about special improvement districts."

Regina smiles faintly, marks down another passage that needs clarification. "Just one, Madam Mayor, and it will have significant benefits for general engagement in the welfare of this town."

"Yes, and it also means that _more_ people will whine and complain to me about irrelevant things." The door to the office opens and Kathryn's assistant comes in with a brown paper grocery bag, which he sets on the coffee table on the other side of the office. "Thank you, Joe."

"Sure thing, Mayor Ladd." And then Joe meets Regina's eyes and actually smiles. "Ms. Mills," he acknowledges, and bows slightly before leaving.

Regina looks over at the paper bag, then at Kathryn. "What did you do?"

Kathryn smiles brightly. "Well, since going out to lunch seemed to be non-negotiable, I thought I'd bring lunch to us."

"Kathryn."

"Surely you won't force me to eat alone in front of you?"

Regina bites the inside of her lip, hesitates. "A working lunch?"

"For appearances' sake. I have no intention of working during it, of course, but yes, on paper it will be labelled a working lunch." Kathryn stands up, gestures towards the sofa and armchairs—the same as during Regina's tenure, but somehow the change in drapes and artwork has brightened up the office, made it just warm enough. "Come on. Mozzarella sticks and girl talk."

"Kathryn," she says again, vaguely protesting. "I'm happy to be your consultant, but—friendship is inappropriate. Misguided, even."

"Why? Because you're the Evil Queen?" Kathryn almost seems gleeful to say it, like she saw this entire conversation coming. "We all know you haven't been her in quite some time."

"I had you assaulted and kidnapped."

"And I forgive you for it." Kathryn crouches next to Regina's chair, places a hand on her arm. "Look. I've been made aware of what's happening with Henry, and maybe you didn't need a friend before, but I'm _sure_ you need one now, and I'm offering, Regina. Still."

She only really hears the first part, because now things make sense. "Made aware… so Emma put you up to this."

"Emma?" Kathryn frowns, shakes her head. "No, she didn't put me up to this. I talked to her about this, because I was getting frustrated with your ice bitch routine, but she's not behind this. I am, Regina. I'm behind this."

"So then who—Henry," she says helplessly, and the knowledge clicks into place. "Snow. Snow told you."

Kathryn nods silently.

She wants to strike out, because Snow will _never_ keep her mouth shut, but Kathryn is so far from Cora—"I wasn't aware you two were close."

Darkness clouds Kathryn's eyes, but only for a moment. "We talk, sometimes. Usually about David." At Regina's startled expression, she continues. "He was my fiancé, and my fake husband, and my friend. Sometimes… sometimes she just needs someone to understand how hard it is to see this version of him." And then Kathryn smiles, bright and hopeful again. "And he and Fred are die-hard Pats fans, so there's that, too."

Regina smiles, inclines her head. "They're indoctrinating Henry, gradually. He's getting David a custom Patriots jersey for Christmas."

Kathryn laughs, clear and pure, and Regina lets herself be led over to the couch. "He's got to let Fred in on that one. He still wants to get David a sport chair and make him QB."

"He is aware of the incompatibility of mud and wheels, yes?"

"Mmm, something about getting the mayor to approve Astroturf for the field. He claims he has an 'in.'"

* * *

"You said—_ohh_—to talk—"

Emma's hands rake up underneath her blouse, fingers prodding at the bottom edge of her bra. "Mmmhmm," she murmurs, presses her body against Regina's even more and kisses her harder, just a little sloppier. "Yeah, in a minute," and then she's cupping a breast and of all the days to wear one of those useless, all-lace bras—Regina groans, drags her hand from the back of Emma's neck to cover the hand on her breast, tightens her grip to show Emma just how hard to squeeze, moves their hands together so that her peaking nipple is between two fingers, so that Emma can tug on it through the lace, just enough, with every movement of her hand.

Emma's mouth leaves her neck to return to her lips, muffling all the little sighs she can't really suppress. Regina drops her hands to that denim-covered ass, squeezes and pulls so that Emma grinds harder against her raised thigh, is pleased when Emma breaks the kiss to moan, pressing her open mouth to Regina's chin. "We can't do this here," she manages to get out before taking Emma's mouth again, tugging on her lower lip with her teeth.

"But we can do this?" Emma asks, shifts her focus to the other breast and whimpers when Regina lifts her thigh a little more, following the erratic rocking of Emma's hips.

She moves to the soft underside of Emma's jaw, leaves a wet, wet kiss. "Not here," she says again, drags her open mouth halfway down Emma's neck.

Emma sighs, half-regretful and half-aroused, pulls away slightly. In the dim fluorescent lighting of the interrogation room, her tousled hair and clothing and her wide, wild-eyed look—Regina tugs her back, kisses her again, again, again. It's been so long since she's _wanted_ like this, and to be wanted back—she pulls Emma's body closer and closer still. "Okay, but really," Emma mumbles, then just groans, buries both hands in Regina's hair and crushes their mouths together. And then it's all about the kiss, and the slide of tongue against tongue, the back and forth and the way she can feel Emma smile before she pulls back. "We—about Christmas—"

The word snaps Regina out of her haze, and with a firm push to the center of Emma's chest, she separates their bodies, sets about straightening her clothes and hair. "What about it?" she demands.

When she looks up, Emma's watching her with a wounded expression in her eyes. "My mom's inviting—"

"No."

Emma's posture droops. "Regina, please."

"No," she repeats, just as clipped and sharp as before.

"Kathryn and Fred will be there."

"Irrelevant."

"Come on, my dad—"

"Can come exchange gifts, but Henry will not be going over there."

Emma freezes. "Henry?" she repeats, slowly, like she isn't sure what she's hearing. "I was talking about _you_."

Her body tenses, a new wave of adrenaline flooding her system and saying _get out, get out, get out_. "Neither I nor my son will enter that house with the intention of _breaking bread_, Emma. Not after everything she's done—"

"You're gonna pull this _my son_ shit now?" Emma snaps. "You're really gonna ruin his Christmas like this?"

"Ruin?" she hisses, and now the adrenaline's turned, is pushing her towards Emma with burning intent. "_Ruin_? She's standing idly by while he gets _beaten up_ and then blames _him_ for it and forces _him_ to endure therapy he doesn't want and summer school he shouldn't need and _I'm_ ruining things?"

"_He's_ picking fights and _she's_ just doing her job—"

"He's picking fights because _you_ taught him to fight!"

"Because _you_ said it was the only way!"

"God forbid you think for yourself about _anything_, least of all how to deal with my son!"

"_Our_ son," Emma shouts, and then seems to process what Regina said, completely deflates. "You know what—just—forget it. Fine. I'll—I'll figure out a way to split between my parents and yours—"

"Don't bother," Regina sneers.

Emma snaps. "_Fuck you_, Regina. I'm spending Christmas with my parents _and _my son, and you know what, I was really fucking looking forward to spending it with you, too, but forget that. Apparently I don't think enough for your tastes, although, shit, with your history, that means you should be all over me, right?"

The room is silent, and Emma's shoulders are heaving with emotion, and Regina keeps her chin raised and her eyes hard while she stalks to the door, yanks it open and slams it shut behind her.

* * *

It only takes her an hour to realize that she's made a serious mistake, but by then it's past three and Emma's probably gone to bring Henry to the station and—and she doesn't want to let Henry see this, see how she's messed up and been _small_ again.

They made a promise, two years ago. It didn't have words until they were back on the ship but they made it with their eyes as soon as they climbed the high ridge up to the Hangman's Tree, just the two of them, and had to pick their way around the small, still bodies of the Lost Boys, around Hook's twisted corpse and Rumpel's barely-breathing form. _Never again_. They don't get to be selfish, they don't get to be petty, they don't get to be _at odds_ like they were. Henry first, Henry always.

But Henry _only_?

Maybe it is Henry only. Maybe when Emma's sea-storm eyes meet her own while their son chatters at them, maybe she is saying _look what we made _but not the way Regina means it, not the way Regina wants her to mean it.

She doesn't want to keep Henry from his grandparents, not on Christmas. She doesn't want to keep him from Emma, ever. She wouldn't keep him from Emma—not anymore, not after Emma bit back the pain and lifted him from the Lagoon like she'd lifted him from the mine and straight into Regina's arms again. She doesn't get to be selfish, and Emma doesn't get to be petty, because Henry first. Henry has to decide whether he wants to see his grandparents on Christmas, and if he does—if he is still so full of love—then he'll go. He'll come home to her, but he'll go and she won't begrudge him that.

She pulls her peacoat tighter around herself, drops her chin into the softness of the scarf she still hasn't given back to Emma, and rings the doorbell for the house she's been lingering in front of for ten minutes. When Kathryn opens the door, hair loose from her professional up-do and a ladle in hand, Regina tries for a smile but ends up just wincing. "I—was wondering about the specifics. Of that offer."

Kathryn's eyes brighten, and she opens the door wider. "Why don't you come in? We can talk terms over a glass of wine."

* * *

Her cell phone goes off just after six, a mash-up of Junior's solos from "Colonel Hathi's March" blaring loudly in the Ladd's kitchen and a close-up of Henry's eye popping up on her screen. Ordinarily, she keeps it on vibrate just so the ringtones Henry troll-programmed in for her don't alarm the rest of society, but she might want to hear the opening snare of "Bare Necessities" more than any other song tonight.

From the stove, Fred chuckles knowingly, and Kathryn smiles at her before going over to her husband's side to give Regina some privacy. "Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi, Mom." Henry sounds anxious, nervous, and her stomach lurches at the thought that something _else_ has happened, something new, and that she isn't _there_ for him because her libido and her temper have messed things up again.

"How was school?"

"Good. I got a 98 on that quiz."

She smiles, wishes to be able to hug him and say _I'm proud of you_ with her eyes so that he knows she means it. "That's very good, Henry. Did you tell Emma?"

"No."

He doesn't offer more, so she clears her throat to stall. "Did something happen?"

"She's really upset." He takes a deep breath, lets it out, then inhales again. "She's really upset and keeps texting and then throwing her phone, so I thought I should see if you're okay."

_Oh_. "Oh, Henry—"

"So… are you okay?"

Her sweet, sweet boy. Her sweet little miracle boy. "I am." And then—because she has to, has to, has to—she asks, "Are you?"

"How do you mean?"

She fumbles; how can she ask Henry about a thing that has no name? "Emma being that upset. I just… how do _you_ feel?"

"I feel like if she keeps throwing the phone it'll break, and all the work I did setting up things to annoy her will go to waste." His voice is abruptly deeper, richer; it startles Regina, makes the joke unequivocally lighter since it can't be mistaken for a whine. "Is she going to be upset for long?"

She wishes she could look at him, see whether he's calm or frightened or smirking or disgusted. "That's not my intention, no."

"Okay." It's a single word, so simple, so trusting. "I love you, Mom."

Four words: so simple, so trusting. "I love you, too. Go rescue her phone."

* * *

It's past ten when she walks up Mifflin, opens her front gate and sees Emma huddled on the steps, hands shoved in her jacket pockets and knees shaking. Regina stops halfway up the walk and just stares at her, takes in the redness to her nose and at the corners of her eyes. "How long have you been out here?"

Emma shrugs, the movement jostling the hood of her jacket and forcing it to fall back. "A while." She moves her feet slightly apart, keeps her knees together. "I kinda felt nauseous all afternoon."

"What did you eat?" Regina asks automatically, and then realizes.

"Fighting with you is way worse, now," Emma says quietly, and Regina closes her eyes briefly. "I don't like feeling sick like this."

It takes a moment, but she forces her body to move again, to bring her to the stairs so she can sit next to Emma, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. "I'm sorry," she says, and clears her throat. "I'm sorry. For what I said about you, and for making a selfish decision about Henry."

Emma stays silent.

"You—you _do_ think. You think about things I never would, and you work so, so hard to be a good parent to him, and I was wrong."

"I shouldn't have said that—that last thing," Emma finally mumbles. "About your history. Because this—whatever happened before, it doesn't—that's not _us_."

"What is?" Regina whispers, and Emma turns her head to look at her. "What is _us_? Because—because if it's just about having _something_, I can do that, I think, but I need to know that's what it is. I can't be here thinking that it's about you and me if it's just about having something for you."

Emma is quiet, and just looks at her for a long, long time. "It's about you and me, Regina. I—I'm sorry if I ever gave you a reason to think differently. But—it's _you_. You and me."

Regina nods, and closes her eyes again, because she won't cry, and if she does it will only be because it's cold. "Henry's at the apartment?"

"My mom's with him."

"He's okay with that?"

"He doesn't hold grudges like us." Regina smiles, concedes the point. "I should be angry with her. She's… doing it this way is only penalizing him, and she knows him. She should know him. I just… I don't know how to be angry with her. How to stay angry with her."

She isn't sure who reaches for whose hand first, but their fingers lace together, gloved and bare, and everything feels a bit lighter. "You don't have to feel anything you don't want to feel."

"I want to be angry with her."

"It's complicated with you two."

"I _want_ to be angry with her."

"You don't owe me that, Emma."

"Do I owe Henry?"

Regina runs her thumb up and down the side of Emma's index finger, traces the black and silver ring she wears. "I don't know," she admits, squeezes Emma's hand. "I don't know." She rests her head on Emma's shoulder, smiles a little when she feels Emma turn into the contact. "He asked me about heaven the other day."

Emma stays silent, and for a moment Regina wonders if she hadn't heard. Then Emma inhales sharply, trembles on the exhale. "That—that's a good thing, right? Him asking?"

"It could be."

"What'd you say? What did he ask?" The questions come out on top of each other, urgent.

Regina gets it. "He asked whether heaven and hell are real places, like Neverland, and what decides whether you go to one or the other. And then he asked how someone who wasn't in control of their actions would be judged."

"But, like, in kid-speak, right?"

Regina flicks her thumb against Emma's bare palm without saying a word, can't help but smile when she feels Emma suppress a laugh. "I told him that whatever follows this life, the Lost Boys would have been judged as they were before they were Lost."

"But he didn't ask about the Lost Boys."

"Well, not explicitly, but—"

"Regina. He could have been asking about _himself_."

She lifts her head, stares at Emma open-mouthed. Because—_if you weren't in control of your body_, he'd said. _If your body did bad things_.

"You think?" she whispers, and it's been so long since since she even thought to hope for Henry to believe in absolution but—oh, God, _what if_?

Emma smiles, the same slanted-mouth smile she gave to their son. "Maybe. Maybe."

It's easy, then, to make one more concession, to take on one more little burden. "If he's okay with going, we'll go for Christmas. To your parents'."

"You don't have—"

Regina cuts her off with a kiss. Just a gentle one, just a soft _welcome home_. "I want to celebrate with my family, Emma. I'll do what it takes."

Emma raises her right hand to Regina's face, traces the rise of her cheekbone with one cold, cold finger. "You and me," she starts, and hesitates. "Me?" she asks, and for a moment Regina doesn't understand, but when she does—

When she does, she kisses Emma again, and again, and again. Always soft, always sweet. Always _yes_. "How could I not?" she murmurs, and feels something between her ribs break open when Emma smiles, dazzlingly bright.

Emma deepens the kisses first, increasing pressure, parting her lips a little more each time they come together. It's staggering, how she can pull so much feeling out of Regina all at once. How there is _want_ and then all of this… this _home_.

It's want and it's home that makes her pull back, just barely, when the tip of Emma's tongue traces the edge of her upper lip. "Come upstairs," she whispers, and squeezes Emma's hand. "Come upstairs."

Emma smiles, pushes a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear. One more kiss, gentle and calm, and she nods, still smiling.


	6. Chapter 6

It's somewhat early when Emma slides out of bed, hissing when the cold air hits her bare skin, and picks up her discarded clothes, pulling them on as she moves around the room. Regina watches from under heavy-lidded eyes, curled on her side with the covers tucked right up under her chin. The inside of her thighs are still vaguely sticky, and her muscles ache from her knees up to her navel; some spot on the underside of her breast throbs and she can feel the dried sweat on her body, craves a shower. All that and she still can't help but smile sleepily when Emma stubs her toe on the foot of the bed and curses loudly. "Careful," she murmurs, and Emma turns to face her with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry—I didn't want to wake you."

Regina hums, rolls onto her back and stretches her legs out, wiggles her toes a little. "So you were just going to sneak out of my bed without a word, then?" Emma's sheepish expression morphs to stricken, and Regina lets out a low, throaty giggle, and another—higher-pitched—when Emma sticks out her tongue petulantly. "Graceful _and_ witty," Regina teases, "how did I get so lucky?"

Emma shakes her head, still smiling, then drops her jacket back on the floor and crawls up the bed, props herself up with her hands just above Regina's shoulders. "Don't forget classy and charming."

Regina rolls her eyes, can't help but smile when Emma kisses her. "Definitely not charming."

"No?"

"Not a bit," she murmurs, prepares for another kiss, but lets out a stifled shriek when Emma sits back, straddling her hips, and starts to pull back the covers. "No, it's cold!"

"So my ass can freeze, but yours can't?" Her grip on the edge of the comforter is the first thing Emma attacks, first trying to wrench the covers from her, then lowering her mouth to flick her tongue against Regina's fingertips, nibble at them intermittently.

"Mine's too nice," she retorts, and tries to push Emma's face away—which is the mistake. As soon as her right hand lets go of the blankets, Emma pins her free hand and drags the covers back, exposing her body to the cold and forcing another yelp from her. "Emma," she complains.

And then she has no reason to complain, because Emma, practically hypnotized, leans forward, presses warm dry kisses around each pebbling nipple but leaves them untouched. Instead, she kisses her way to the sore spot on the inside curve of her breast, laves her tongue over it slowly. "Does it hurt?" she asks, and her breath is moist and hot.

Regina bites down on her lower lip, peers down at her chest to see the mottled mark, deep red with darker impressions of Emma's teeth. "A little sore," she admits, and sighs when Emma closes her eyes, noses and then grazes her lips over the bruise. "I like it."

Emma freezes, eyes snapping open. "How much?" she whispers, and her lips seal onto Regina's skin at the end of the question. She doesn't wait for a response before resetting her mouth, letting her bottom teeth scrape down so she can suck the bruise into her mouth again.

Regina gasps, and arches into it, and when Emma's fingers rake up her ribcage to finally, finally tease her nipple, she has to grab at something—Emma's shoulder, and her messy hair, and she digs into the fabric of the sweater and fists her hand in those curls. "What happened," she hisses, and loses her words briefly when Emma bites down, gets them back when she releases her skin with a wet _pop_, "to sneaking out without a word?"

Keeping her eyes on her handiwork, Emma just chuckles, sits up and grabs onto the hem of her sweater, strips in one smooth motion. "We don't have to talk," she drawls, but when she looks at Regina her eyes are bright, bright, bright, so bright that Regina doesn't even have a choice, doesn't stand a chance.

She sits up and kisses her and strokes the dimples beside her spine and kisses her and traces the scratches on her shoulders and kisses her and Emma loses patience, unhooks her own bra and tosses it to the side. It's cold and they'd forgotten, and Emma whines against Regina's mouth until she brings her hands up to lightly cup, squeeze, caress Emma's breasts. "C'mere," Regina murmurs, drawing back so Emma follows, pulling her close so their torsos press together and kicking her feet just enough to get the sheets out from between them. "C'mere," she says again, and Emma kisses her distractedly, reaching back to pull the blankets over them again.

Their little cocoon of white sheets and white blankets gets hot quickly, but Regina relishes it, savors how everything slows down a little. She leaves wet, wet kisses up the column of Emma's neck, humming into the skin every time Emma's steadily wandering hands stroke some particularly sensitive strip of skin. The softness on the back of her thigh is a particularly good spot, and Emma traces up and down and up again until Regina spreads her legs a little wider, draws her legs up to hook her ankles around Emma's thighs. Emma, who's been hovering, who's been propping herself up, lets out this soft sigh, right into Regina's mouth, and lets her hips drop to grind against Regina's wetness.

She doesn't expect to respond as strongly as she does, but she's not used to stiff denim scraping at her like that, or remotely prepared for the cold metal button that just misses her clit. Emma laughs at her moan, presses against her harder and squeezes her ass with one hand. "Again," Regina commands, and Emma grins, rolls her hips slowly, gentler than before. It's just right—Emma is always just right—and Regina lets her breath stutter out of her. Emma grinds once more, and Regina sucks in air, touches her cheek. "Chafing now," she says, and smiles when Emma slides down just enough to bring her lower abs in line with Regina's cunt, drops an apologetic kiss between the points of her collarbones.

They trade lazy, lazy kisses, touching slowly but confidently. Regina knows to use her nails—lightly over that taut stomach, lighter still when she touches pink nipples and pale pale breasts, hard and harder on Emma's arms and shoulders, ass and thighs. She knows to bring her own pelvis higher and make sure Emma doesn't hold a position that'll stress her back too much, to be gentle when she squeezes her thighs around Emma's waist and presses harder with her right, rolling them so she tops. She uses her teeth and her tongue to mark her path down Emma's body, both hands to unbutton her jeans, toys with the zipper for far longer than she should—but when Emma holds her breath just so, whimpers just so, how can she resist?

The alarm goes off, blaring and obnoxious, and Emma half-slaps, half-punches the little digital display, manages to silence it. "Ignore that," she orders, and Regina smirks, finally tugs the zipper down. It goes off again before she's even pulled them four inches from Emma's hips, and Emma hits it again, but it's too late; Regina releases the denim, sits back on Emma's thighs. Emma pouts, and then scowls when the alarm goes off a third time.

Chuckling, Regina leans over to the nightstand, flicks the alarm switch off and lets her body follow her shift in balance to fall onto the mattress next to Emma. "You should go shower," she says softly, and curls her body slightly, brings her knees up to rest against Emma's hip.

"Fuck a shower," Emma grumbles, and turns towards her, slides a hand up her calf and tugs at the back of her knee to try and bring her close again.

"You have to go to work," she points out, but accepts Emma's still pouting kiss anyway.

"Fuck work."

"You have to take our son to school."

"Fuck—" and Emma cuts herself off, grimaces. "—me," she sighs, and flops onto her back.

Regina laughs, low and breathy. "After your shift, dear," she teases, and just smirks when Emma glares at her.

It's maybe not the best move, because Emma suddenly throws off all the blankets, baring both of their bodies to the air, and gets out of bed with rough, irritated movements. Regina's just moving to pull the blankets over herself again when Emma grabs her by the ankles and yanks, hard, drags her to the edge of the bed. "Emma—what—" she sputters, before Emma slides both hands under her ass and lifts, hoisting Regina against her body. It's sudden and startling and Regina shrieks, clings to Emma with her legs around her waist and her arms around her neck. "What the hell are you doing!"

"Going to shower," Emma says shortly, but then lets a tiny smile sneak out. "And you're coming." She adds a quick wink. "Promise."

Regina laughs so hard that she doesn't even care that Emma almost drops her twice on the way to the bathroom.

* * *

The next time, the call comes from the hospital, right when Regina is about to put the pies in the oven. It's the day before Christmas Eve and Henry apparently promised both David and Fred that Regina's bourbon pecan pie would be on the menu—although she's fairly certain Henry is merely taking the fall for Emma—so she's baking again. It's been… a long time, since she properly baked anything, and she has to keep stopping to remind herself that all of the ingredients are good, and safe, and unhistoried, and she was asked. She was asked, so it's okay.

But then the call comes from the hospital and nothing's okay, at all.

They won't let her see him when she gets there, because he's _not conscious_ and they're still stitching him up, and she just about loses her mind, because why does he need stitches, and what do they mean _still_, and the nurse who's trying to handle her keeps putting _hands_ on her and—

And then Emma's there, and the nurse has her hands full with Emma, who's shouting and demanding to talk to a doctor and honestly scaring the hell out of everyone in the waiting room. "Sheriff," the nurse keeps saying, "Sheriff, Dr. Gulliver is still tending to your son—"

"Gulliver? Like the fucking travels? Some fucking Lilliputian who wrote a book while on _shrooms_ is stitching up my kid?"

"Sheriff, he is taller than you and an excellent doctor—"

The double doors to the ER swing open, and the man who's suddenly facing them both is so familiar, so familiar—the woodcutter. Michael Tillman. It's Michael Tillman looking at them with shock and slight fear on his face, and his hand on Nicholas's shoulder, and Nicholas—

"Nick?" Emma whispers, and sidesteps the nurse, takes one step towards the Tillmans and stops when Michael pulls Nick back against him. Regina takes inventory in silence: blood-stained shirt, cuts and bruises on his face, bloody knuckles, but he's walking. He's going home. They can't even see Henry yet but Nicholas is going home. "Nick, they—were you with him? Did you see who did this to him?"

She wants to pull Emma back, to put distance and her whole body in between Emma and the truth, but she just can't move, her whole body is _burning_, and she can't can't can't.

So when Emma gets it, when she looks at Nicholas and sees it, she actually manages to take one more step forward, one horrible staggering step, and Regina almost falls forward in the rush to stop her from following through with that realization. "Emma—Emma," she whispers, but it's no good.

Emma looks at Michael, and then at Nicholas, and her whole body surges forward another step. "He's your _friend_," she hisses, "he's brought you _home, _you fucking little shit, he's your _friend_!"

Regina grabs at Emma's wrist and her waist, tries to pull her back, and as soon as she touches Emma it's all over because when her hands come forward, fingers splayed out in fear and desperation, Michael moves to shield Nicholas with his own body.

All the solid rage in Emma's body collapses, and Regina ends up half supporting her weight and she can't. She can't, because Emma caving like this means—means something terrible. Means the same thing it did last time they stood here without their son, the same thing it meant the last time Henry suffered because of her.

"There's no magic," Emma whispers, and turns her wrist out of Regina's grasp only to bring their hands together again, only to hold fast. "There's no magic. Don't you—why would you do this to _him_? What did he ever do wrong?"

Regina doesn't look at Michael, and she doesn't look at Nicholas, because she knows what she'll see. She just looks at Emma, and waits for her, and waits for her. When those sea-sweet eyes finally meet hers, the fire she wants to see, the fire she should be seeing is banked. Emma just looks at her with such sorrow, such resignation—Regina crumples.

The bay doors open again, and a tall, graying man in wrinkled scrubs steps through. "Henry Mills?" he calls, and Emma's hand tightens around hers.

* * *

They set Henry up in an ICU room with windows that look out over the hospital courtyard. It's the only thing about the room that she's capable of taking in: the wide, bright windows and the empty brick on the other side. The room isn't important; what's important is that his chest is rising and falling without the aid of any machines, and the muted monitors on the left of his bed flash green numbers every sixty seconds. What's important is that his ankle is compressed and elevated and his arm has been set in a cast and the split skin at his jawline has been stitched closed and his ribs have been wrapped tightly. What's important is that he's going to wake up.

Emma is gone. She'd stayed long enough to hold Regina through the worst of the tears, long enough to speak in low tones with Dr. Gulliver about what kind of weapon would cause the blunt force trauma to Henry's torso. Long enough to touch the backs of her fingers to the uninjured side of Henry's jaw, to press a kiss to his cheek and whisper something hoarse and cracking to him. And then she'd straightened up and given Regina that small, shy, all-softness smile, and left with Mulan.

And yes, Regina wants her here, but with the way the anger was vibrating in Emma's fingertips, leaving was the best thing. Leaving means Emma can _do_ something, anything to make it stop for good. She doesn't care if it means the whole lacrosse team gets sent to juvenile detention; if there were magic—

She cuts the thought off just as David presses the button for the automatic door and wheels into the room, comes around the bed to stop next to Regina's chair. "Hey," he says quietly.

"Hi."

"Emma called," he says, and Regina almost smiles, nods in understanding. "Snow's getting coffee for us—if that's all right?"

"Coffee would be good," she says quietly.

"How is he?"

She runs through the list of his injuries: bruised and fractured ribs, sprained ankle, broken arm, 9 total stitches to various cuts including his jawline, and a mild-to-moderate traumatic brain injury that they can't really assess until he wakes up. She doesn't repeat any of the warning words Gulliver had said, quietly and cautiously, like aphasias and alexithymia and dysarthria.

David stays quiet while she speaks, fists clenching sporadically around the metal handrims. The monitors beep softly to mark the half-hour measurement and recording. Henry's blood pressure is getting better, up to 90 from the 65 it was when she first sat down. "You shouldn't blame yourself."

She closes her eyes, searches for just an ounce of patience. Emma gets it, at least, understands that there are actions and reactions and that sometimes the reaction travels through space and time in a curve, not a straight line. "Please don't."

"Regina," he says strongly, and when she finally looks at him, he has that same patient clarity to his eyes that Emma shows her when she's afraid. "There is no crime in existence that would justify attacking your child."

She scoffs, looks away. Stupid David. As if Emma was the only child ripped from her parents because of the curse. As if the Charmings were the only family to sacrifice.

"I know about the Tillmans. And Grace. And the Barretts. And I'm telling you now, there's _nothing_ that justifies hurting Henry. You did not bring this on him."

She thinks again of the high ridge to the Hangman's Tree and how she and Snow had been knocked to the ground but David and Emma, always the vanguard, had been thrown. Thinks of the dull thud and then the sharp crack when David's body collided with the trunk of a jack pine and Emma's body had hit him. Thinks of how he'd screamed soundlessly until the pain overwhelmed him, knocked him unconscious. How he's never once looked at Henry with anything but love and adoration and yes, exasperation—but never with bitterness, never with anger.

"Not everyone has the pure heart of a shepherd," she hisses, and looks away before he can see the salt stinging at her eyes.

He clearly wants to say more, but the door clicks open and Snow hesitates with a cardboard tray of coffee in hand. Henry has her eyes—glimmering hazel, always so full of emotion. "Oh," Snow whispers, and takes a step towards the bed, lets the door fall closed behind her. "Oh, Henry."

No one speaks while Snow stands there and just looks at Henry. Regina doesn't have it in her to watch—can't stomach the tears that will inevitably rise, the _sympathy_. She knows Snow will want the doctor's report but she doesn't have that in her, either. All she has is the certainty that Henry will wake up and Emma will make this world safe for him again and Regina will learn to break bones with her bare hands to keep it that way. _Never again_. They'd promised.

There are hands on her knees, cold through the sheer tights, and she looks up to see Snow crouched in front of her. The coffee tray is on David's lap; Snow's trapped them both where they sit. "I'm sorry," Snow says, and Regina bites her tongue, hard, relishes the pain of her incisors digging in. "I handled this whole thing badly. I'm sorry. I should have done things differently, done more to protect him."

She wants to scream and yell and tear the hair out of Snow's empty little head but she can't. Can never. "Yes," she finally says, almost hisses. "Yes. You handled it wrong and you should have protected him."

Snow tears up, swallows nervously, but doesn't look away, doesn't flinch.

Exhausted, Regina brushes Snow's hands from her knees. "Get off the floor, you'll dirty your coat," she says, and gestures to the chair on her left.

Snow does as told, and David hands Regina a cup with her name on it, and she sits back in her chair and waits.


	7. Chapter 7

Every half hour, Nurse Fisher comes into check Henry's stats; although she's quiet and doing her best not to disturb them, Regina wakes every time. Emma, curled behind her on the cot the staff brought in, seems to drift in and out of sleep regardless of who's in the room, but when she's conscious she holds Regina just a little tighter, just a little closer. Any other time, any other person and Regina would resent it, would hate being _tethered_, but now with Henry still unconscious and with all the blame squarely at her feet—she's just thankful. Thankful that she's found one person, finally, who knows how deeply she loves, how much that love matters.

Emma hums into her hair, takes a deep breath. "Shhh," is all she gets out, though. "Stop thinking."

Regina closes her eyes again, struggles to push the guilt aside.

"Any change?" Emma asks, and shifts to prop herself up on her elbow and peer at the hospital bed, at the monitors stacked next to it.

"No," Regina says quietly, grips the edge of the knit blanket tightly. "Anything from Kathryn?"

Emma's arm leaves her waist, but returns with cell phone in hand. Two messages, one from David and one from Kathryn. Emma opens Kathryn's first, and when Regina reads the words—slightly blurry, and the brightness of the screen hurts her eyes—she just wants to curl in on herself and cry. _No consensus, no good ideas. They want to break for the night. Fred & I researching. How's Henry?_

Emma doesn't text back or open David's message, just drops the phone onto the cot and pulls their bodies together, presses her mouth against Regina's neck but doesn't do anything beyond that. "We can't worry about that, okay? They will figure something out, and we can trust Kathryn to do the right thing. Okay? We don't worry about that. We focus on him, and being here for him, and—and giving him everything we can, okay?"

She knows the truth of what Emma's saying, but love isn't enough. She wants to give Henry justice. She wants to give Henry vengeance. She wants to crack ribs and break arms and leave all five of the bastards who did this bruised and bloody and begging for mercy. She wants an eye for an eye and no matter how much love enters her world, that violence will never leave her.

"They will get theirs," Emma whispers, and finally places a kiss to her skin. "If I have to do it myself, they will get theirs. But for now, we trust Kathryn."

She tries. She tries to take some of Emma's quiet certainty, Emma's _faith_, and wrap herself up in it. "They're all at the station, though? They're in custody?"

"Four of them, in the holding cells," Emma affirms. "Just Teddy left, and Mulan said she'd keep patrolling."

"I want them to _hurt_."

It's quiet for a long moment before she feels Emma nod. "We'll find a way. They'll do the time, somehow."

No magic and no barrier should have made this easy. It should have meant that the five of them get sent up to Charleston until they reach eighteen and maybe a few years past that. It should have meant charges filed and pleas entered and _no deals_ and quick sentencing. It should have meant _just another small town violent crime_.

Magic would have made this simple. A rib for a rib. Blood for blood.

She almost wants to say _send them anyway_. Wants to say _damn the consequences_. Let someone else deal with the self-disgust of betraying their child when the state comes investigating claims of the evil mayor splitting up families and tampering with memories. Let someone else deal with the choice between labeling their child _delusional_ and exposing the whole town for what it really is. She knows which is the right choice and which is the wrong choice. She knows what all can be destroyed by the wrong choice.

Henry's monitors beep, marking the half-hour, and Regina can hear Nurse Fisher's clogs squeak in the hallway. She bites her tongue and closes her eyes and focuses on the scent of Emma's hair, lush and dark, focuses on the steady steady beating of her heart.

* * *

At four, when she is still awake because if she closes her eyes she can only see breaking bones, Henry's breathing alters, hitches twice. She's up in a flash, digging an elbow into Emma's stomach before standing up and going to the edge of the bed. His eyelashes are moving, just slightly, and she grips the bedrail hard enough to hurt her own hand.

She feels Emma come to stand beside her, cautious. "What is it? Should I get a nurse?"

She shakes her head, doesn't look away from Henry's face, reaches blindly for Emma's hand. "No, no—I think he's waking up."

Emma's fingers lace tightly with her own, and she steps in closer. "Henry?" she whispers. "Kid, you ready to open your eyes?"

The lights are off and she's grateful, because when his eyes—slowly, slowly, with so many flutters—finally open fully, he pinches them shut again after half a second. "Mommy?"

"I'm here, sweetheart," she whispers, and smiles so wide that she aches with it. Emma—sweet, sweet Emma—brings their joined hands up, switches her left for her right and brings both of their hands over the bedrail to hold Henry's. Both. "Emma, too."

Henry keeps his eyes closed, takes a long, slow, labored breath. "You okay?"

She chokes, and she can feel Emma tensing next to her. "Yes, baby, we're okay. Can you—are you in pain?"

His hand grips theirs, weak but definite. "Yeah." And then he opens his eyes, and _looks_ at them, and she feels so full up with love that it pushes at her bones. "Not hurt?"

Oh, God—there's damage. He doesn't understand he's hurt, or—or he doesn't know how to explain that he's hurt. There's damage. They hurt his brain, there's damage—

"No, kid. She's not hurt," Emma says, voice soothing and dangerously low. "Don't talk anymore, we're gonna get the nurse and some water, okay?"

He closes his eyes again, nods just slightly, and Regina needs him to open his eyes again, needs him to explain, to use full sentences and explain and prove that he will be okay—

"Regina," Emma murmurs, and pulls at her waist, draws her away from the bed, "go get Fisher and some water."

"Why did you say me, what—why does he think—"

"Regina," Emma repeats, stronger, looking her straight in the eye. "Go get the nurse and some water."

She stays where she is.

Emma sighs, looks up at the ceiling for a moment. "I need to figure out if we need to get a deputy down here right now to take a statement, Regina. I need you to leave the room for a minute."

A statement. A—Henry needs to give a statement.

"One minute," she whispers, and goes back to Henry, kisses his temple gently. "I'll be right back, Henry, and Emma will be right here, okay?"

He nods again, and she's sure his mouth turns up in a smile.

* * *

Mulan gets there in thirty minutes, comes in just as Dr. Gulliver is leaving. Preliminary tests—following a pen light, reciting the alphabet, counting down from one hundred by sevens—seem to check out. Some of his sounds are off, almost like he's developed a lisp, but Gulliver says that's probably temporary. The important thing is that Henry isn't damaged. He isn't damaged. He's in pain, but wants to give his statement before they give him another dose of painkillers, because he's strong like that, strong and undamaged.

She wants to tell him that she _knows_, that if he wants to be a little weak just for now it's okay, no one will hold it against him, she won't hold it against him—

Emma sits down next to her and her right leg is jumping nervously, but Regina just doesn't have it in her to focus on tending to anyone but Henry. "You good to do this, kid? We can wait if you're not."

"'M good," he mumbles, takes a deep breath that seems like _work_. When he was small, brand new in her life and in her arms and in the world, she used to put him down for a nap in the middle of her bed and just lie there with him and watch his tiny chest rise and fall for as long as he slept. Missed meetings and dodged phone calls and blocked out the whole world just to see him breathing. "Hi, Mulan."

"Good morning, Henry," Mulan says, and steps further into the room. Her uniform is unusually rumpled, hair down and loose, and when her eyes meet Regina's, they're clearly bloodshot. But she smiles, comes closer to Henry's bed. "How do you feel?"

He grunts a little, tries for a smile, and Regina reaches forward to touch the back of his hand in reassurance. She knows Emma moves to stop her, but Henry turns his hand to hold hers and Emma sits back with a sigh. "Ask me something easy," he gets out, and finally manages a smile when Mulan chuckles.

"Do you feel well enough to tell me what happened yesterday?"

His grip on her hand tightens, then releases entirely, but she keeps her hand on the bed rail, there if he needs it. There if he needs her. "I got my ass handed to me."

"Henry," Emma says, quietly but with a sharp edge. He closes his eyes, but he's grinning, she knows he is.

Flipping her notebook open, Mulan waits patiently at the foot of the bed, but something around her eyes and the corners of her mouth shows her worry. "Take your time."

He takes another deep breath. It doesn't seem to be as much of a struggle as a minute ago. "I was walking up to Main Street when—"

"Sorry," Mulan cuts in. "What time was this?"

"Um—maybe twelve?"

Her gaze cuts over to Regina and Emma. "Aren't you supposed to be in school then?"

"Half day," Regina says quietly.

"That's still too early," Emma says. "They get out at 12:30."

"Last class is gym this period," Henry mumbles. "He didn't see the point in having us dress for a thirty minute period so he just dismissed us."

Mulan nods, scribbles it all down. "Okay. Sorry. Keep going."

"Um—yeah, so, I was walking and, uh, Nick and Teddy were walking a little way behind me—Nick Tillman and Teddy Barrett—and Teddy started shouting things at me so I turned around to tell him to shut up and he kept going and kept walking towards me so then when he got close I hit him."

Emma puts her head in her hands.

"And then Nick hit me, and then Teddy hit me, and then I was fighting both of them, and it would've been okay because Nick can't punch and Teddy moves too slow, but then the others ran up and they jumped in and then they held me down. One of them had his lacrosse gear and started swinging the stick but I managed to cover my head. Everything hurt but I think I took one of them down. Maybe two. And then I guess I blacked out."

Mulan doesn't look up from her notebook, and Emma won't raise her head. "Do you know the names of the other boys?"

"Um, I know John—Dorman, John Dorman—was one of them, 'cause I punched him in the face."

"Jesus Christ, Henry," Emma hisses, and Regina reaches out to dig her fingers into Emma's thigh. _Shut up_, she wants to snap, but she just keeps her eyes on Henry, focuses on him.

"One of them was really tall, I've seen him hanging around with Teddy so I think he's in his grade. And, uh, the other one was—I dunno, all I know is he's on the team with them."

Mulan nods again, sighs heavily. "Why did you hit Teddy Barrett?"

"He was shouting at me."

"I… need to know more than that, Henry."

Henry says nothing, just stares at Mulan for a long moment. "Mom?" he finally says, but he won't look at her. "Can you get me something hot to drink?"

He hasn't asked for anything in two years. He hasn't asked for _anything_ in _two whole years_ and right now—she can't even breathe. She can't breathe. And if he would just look at her, she'd do anything he asked. But this way—this way, she can't. She can't. "No, sweetheart," she says quietly, and Emma's hand covers hers, squeezes hard. "Not until you've finished answering the deputy's questions."

He closes his eyes again, and his jaw is clenching up and he shouldn't do that, it's only going to hurt him more. "Please?" he asks again, and his voice cracks.

She can't breathe, her throat is closing up with tears. "No, baby," she refuses, again, but takes his hand, squeezes hard.

When he finally squeezes back, finally opens his always-beautiful eyes to look at her with such _apology_ in his face, she starts to cry. "I hit him because he threatened my mom," he whispers. "He said he'd get the whole team to break in one night and hold her down and beat her and run a train on her and she wouldn't be able to do anything because there's no magic, and there'd be no one to help her, and no one would even hold it against them. So I hit him. I hit him a lot and I'd hit him again—"

He's crying and she doesn't know if it's anger or pain or hurt and she just—she can't even sit up straight, has her forehead pressed to the back of his hand and can't breathe, can't stop sobbing into his fingers, can't can't can't, and when he moves his cast arm to touch his fingers to her hair, to whisper, "Mom? Mom, please don't be mad at me, please, Mommy, don't be mad at me—"

Some sound rips out of her, she can't even process it, just feels the tearing at her vocal cords, and then Emma's arms are around her, pulling her into her lap but not away from their son, and somehow, someway, that brings her back. "I'm not mad," she manages to get out, and Emma rubs small circles on her back. "I'm not mad, Henry, I could—I'm not mad, I promise."

"But—"

"Later, Henry," Emma murmurs. "Just—keep telling Mulan what happened."

"Was this the first time Teddy made threats like that?"

She can't stop the tears, but they're quiet, non-intrusive, absorbed immediately by the blankets. She can't let go of his hand, either, can't loosen her grip on it even though she knows she should.

"No," Henry answers, and his voice is still shaking.

"How many times before?"

"Once. Maybe twice."

"The other… altercations that have happened. Were there threats against you or your mother involved in those?"

"Yeah. Some of them."

"Which ones?"

"The ones where I hit first."

Emma's whole body flinches, and the movement carries through her own body, shakes the bed slightly. Henry sucks in air between his teeth, but he's still got his fingers against her hair and his hand in hers, and—oh, _God_.

"All right. I have what I need for the preliminary report. Mayor Ladd and District Attorney Joseph will want to speak to all of you later today to follow up." There's an awkward beat of silence. "Sheriff, when you have a minute…"

"Yeah," Emma says hoarsely. "Five minutes."

The door clicks shut, and the room is still and quiet and she's still crying silently.

"Regina," Emma whispers, right against her neck. "Come back, babe. Come back."

"Mom?"

"He needs you right now. Please come back."

"Mom?"

She lets Emma pull her back, slightly, but doesn't let go of Henry's hand and Emma doesn't make her, just holds her. "Come back," she whispers again, and Regina tries.

She tries, and tries, and tries, and when she finally feels like she can breathe again, she lifts her head from Emma's shoulder, turns to look at Henry. He's staring at her, wide-eyed and worried and so clearly worn out from just this half-hour of activity. "I love you," she says, and he starts to smile. "I love you," she says again, and stands up, leans over the edge of the bed and presses a kiss to his temple, to his cheek, to the tears coming from his eyes again. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

He rasps it back, every time. "I love you, Mom. I love you."


End file.
